Sometimes it’s a slog to push away what other people think my body should look like, but dancing like this—no binder around my chest, no taming my “too big” boobs, just me—I take fierce pride in the strength and size of my body and in the way I can move.

I make a kissy face at Nevaeh when I see her taking a video, grinning at her phone screen, and she blows a huge kiss back.

My dance skirt flutters around my thighs as I stalk toward my still-kneeling Taylor, one bare foot in front of the other, feeling like a panther. He’s grinning like a dope, and I can’t stop grinning back.

With a single fingertip on the top of Taylor’s head, I prowl around to his broad back, sliding my hands down his shoulders and chest, tossing my mass of hair into his lap and flinging it back. I press my lips to his cheek, and when I straighten, he slaps a hand over that lipstick print, pretending he is swooning.

Gavin is watching as I slither back to the center of the circle, and now I want to know if he’s remembering us. I ruthlessly crush the flare of anxiety. I want him to. Catching his gaze again for a long, slow moment, I smooth my hand across my waist, bite my bottom lip, and tug at the wrap tie of my sweater. Another toss of my hair and I strip the wrap off in one silky movement, sending it fluttering into Zoe’s hands, and I laugh. It feels so good. The crowd is cheering the appearance of naked shoulders in a leotard. I roll them, along with my hips, a slow circle. Stretch my arms above my head, throw my head back, admire the arched curve of my naked arms. No more naked than I’d be performing, but it’s different. There’s a flutter in my stomach.

A senior boy shoves his way forward, waving a twenty at me, hooting. Christopher, pale-and-splotchy pink with a red-cheeked face, captain of the soccer team, in the academic program. The type that doesn’t hang out with the arts-program kids. Owner of a bright blue Tesla convertible. Twenty bucks doesn’t mean anything to him, but it’s plenty to me.

With graceful hands and a graceful neck, I sweep my fingertips along the curve of my leotard’s neckline. (Is it too low?) He takes the hint, his grin getting even wider. But then I spin away when he reaches for me, not letting his hands touch my body, even for his twenty. I hear his shout, but not what he says, and shrug it off.